CHAPTER ONE — THE RUINED MORNING
1414 Words
(Ariana’s POV)
Snow was falling again.
Not the pretty kind that drifts like powdered sugar, but the heavy, lazy flakes that look tired before they even hit the ground. They slid down the foggy kitchen window in slow trails, blurring the world outside. Soft, slow, peaceful — everything my life wasn’t.
It was December fifteenth.
Ten days until Christmas.
Ten days until I’d lose my mother’s house.
The kettle clicked off behind me, a sharp sound in a small room, but I didn’t turn. I just stood there, staring at nothing, pretending the cold air didn’t sting when I inhaled.
My phone sat on the table, screen still lit from the last email I’d opened. I didn’t need to check it again — the subject line alone had gutted me.
Cancellation Notice. Immediate Effect. No Refunds.
But I still picked it up, still forced myself to reread the lines that had been carved into my brain since dawn.
VOSS INDUSTRIES ACQUIRES STARGLOW HOTELS. ALL PENDING CONTRACTS TERMINATED.
Just like that.
Months of planning.
Weeks of sleepless nights.
Thousands of dollars worth of decorations, lights, props, fabrics — all purchased with credit I shouldn’t have touched.
Gone.
All because one man signed a paper.
Damian Voss.
The youngest billionaire in New York.
The coldest CEO in the eastern seaboard.
The man known for “swift executive decisions,” which apparently translated to destroying livelihoods while drinking overpriced coffee in penthouse boardrooms.
My business.
My biggest contract.
The only chance my mother had left.
I sank into the chair, hands trembling as I buried my face in them. My palms felt cold. My fingers numb. I didn’t know if it was from the frost creeping through the unsealed window or the fear that had been living in my stomach for weeks — a fear now fully awake, pacing inside me like a caged animal.
A buzz vibrated across the table — a message from my little sister.
Chloe:
Did the hotel pay you yet? Mom’s asking… she’s worried.
Worried.
If only they knew how much more terrified I was.
I typed back slower than usual, forcing my shaking hands to steady.
Me:
Not yet. I’m handling it.
A lie wrapped in soft edges.
A lie that tasted metallic.
Christmas wasn’t supposed to feel like this. My father used to say winter was a season of hope. “Even the cold can’t hide the magic,” he would whisper every year while stringing lights across our porch. It made sense back then—when wonder came easily, when believing didn’t hurt.
Now, all I could feel was the weight of overdue bills, eviction notices, and the crushing reminder that hope didn’t pay mortgages. Hope didn’t keep a roof over your mother’s head.
The kettle clicked again, like it was impatient with me. I finally stood and poured hot water over the teabag, steam curling upward in soft puffs.
The warmth didn’t soothe me.
Lately nothing did.
I opened my laptop again, hoping I’d missed something — a second email, a correction, an apology, a mistake.
But it was all still there. The same lifeless, corporate phrasing. The same cold termination. The same cruel signature at the bottom:
Damian E. Voss
Chief Executive Officer
I’d never met him. I didn’t need to. His reputation spilled through magazines, business articles, social media charts. Sharp jawline, sharper suits, unreadable eyes. The kind of man people admired from afar and avoided up close. A man who lived in glass towers and left destruction in the snow behind him.
And now, he was the man who had taken everything from me without even blinking.
My phone buzzed again — this time, an unknown number.
I ignored it.
It buzzed a second time.
Then a third.
A text followed:
> “Ariana Cole? We need to speak. -D.V.”
My heart stuttered in my chest.
D.V.
No. It had to be a mistake. A prank. Someone messing with me.
Another text came.
> “This is regarding the Starglow contract. Call me back.”
Cold anger flooded my veins so fast I nearly dropped my mug.
So he did know.
He knew exactly what he’d done.
And now he wanted to what—explain? Apologize? Offer a polite corporate condolence for destroying my business and my family’s stability?
“Absolutely not,” I muttered, deleting the message.
If he wanted to talk, he could talk to his assistants, his board, his lawyers — not me.
I pulled on my coat and stepped outside, letting the cold hit my face. Hard. Sharp. Grounding. The winter wind cut through the air, chilling my skin until my anger felt more manageable.
Bryant Park’s Winter Village was only a few blocks away. My small booth waited for me like a wounded animal. The decorations I’d spent so much money on hung crooked from last night’s storm — some toppled over completely.
It looked tired.
Defeated.
Much like me.
I bent down to pick up a fallen garland, brushing snow from the fake pine needles. Families walked past, their cheeks flushed, scarves wrapped tight. Children laughed, couples held hands, people sipped hot cocoa without a single worry in the world.
I watched them with a quiet ache in my chest.
Their worlds were whole.
Mine felt like a fragile ornament, cracked and crumbling.
“Ari!” a voice called.
I turned to see Jonah, another vendor, jogging up with his knitted hat sitting crooked on his head.
“You heard the news?” he asked softly.
“If you mean the hotel… yeah.”
My voice was barely there.
“Man, I’m sorry. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Perfect. My failure was now public knowledge.
“It’ll work out somehow,” I said, even though I didn’t believe it.
Jonah hesitated. Then he nudged my shoulder. “You should go to the owner. That Voss guy. Make him fix it.”
I laughed—short, sour. “Yeah. I’ll march into his fancy skyscraper and demand he undo his billion-dollar acquisition. Sounds totally realistic.”
“You never know,” he shrugged.
But I did know.
Men like Damian Voss didn’t know people like me existed.
We were numbers.
Names in small print.
Contracts they deleted and never thought about again.
The next hour passed in a blur of rearranging ornaments, straightening shelves, taping down decorations. Snow thickened in the air, settling on roofs, coats, hair. It should have felt peaceful. Instead it felt like a slow countdown to something I didn’t want to face.
At exactly 11:34 a.m., my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
But something gave way inside me — frustration, exhaustion, anger — and I answered.
“Hello?” I said, voice flat.
A low voice responded. Smooth. Controlled. Too calm.
“Ariana Cole.”
He didn’t ask.
He stated it.
Like he already knew who I was.
My stomach tightened. “Who is this?”
A short pause.
Then—
“Damian Voss.”
My breath hitched. Sound disappeared. Even the wind felt still.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” he said.
“Because I have nothing to say to you,” I snapped.
“I believe you do.”
His tone didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. It was steady, precise — like each word was chosen to get a specific reaction from me.
“If this is about the contract, talk to your lawyers,” I bit out. “I’m done.”
“No,” he said simply. “You’re going to meet me.”
I choked out a disbelieving laugh. “Not a chance.”
“You will.”
Another calculated pause.
“Because I’m offering you a solution.”
I froze.
A solution?
There was no universe in which a billionaire who ruined my life suddenly wanted to fix it.
“You have one hour,” Damian continued. “My driver will pick you up. Don’t be late.”
“I’m not going anywhere—”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, numb.
Angry.
Confused.
And underneath all of it — buried deep — something else stirred.
Fear.
Curiosity.
A bitter, dangerous sliver of hope.
Snow gathered on my lashes, blurring the world into white streaks.
I whispered into the quiet air,
“What do you want from me?”
Because men like him didn’t reach into people’s lives unless they needed something.
And nothing about that thought felt safe.
Not at all.
- Writer
